Bound by Wish and Mistletoe (Highland Legends #1.5)(47)

In the kitchen, she found all they needed: jeweled daggers used for eating and a large knife. She fastened one dagger to the top of her boot with a strip of leather and held the other weapons, one in each hand.

With a steadying breath, she returned to the main hall. Her companion had already stood from his bench and paced the length of the center aisle.

“Here, Father.” She tossed him the knife.

The monk caught the handle with the blade pointing down and spun it in his hand, pulling his arm to his side, bracing his legs in a wide stance. He lowered his gaze, staring through the front door.

She looked at him in amazement. “You’ve held a blade before?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “I haven’t always been a monk.”

“Thank God for small blessings,” she said.

Silence continued. No further shadows appeared near any of the windows. The sun’s first rays pierced the corner of the window nearest the front.

What are they doing out there?

Too much time had gone by. If they’d planned to force the door, they would’ve done it by now. She inhaled deeply, scanning the windows for signs of movement, ready for anything.

A flash appeared in the window a split second before an object crashed through the glass. Another window shattered directly opposite them.

Large stones toppled some of the candles, and the flames ignited the cloth runners beneath them. Susanna stood in shock, watching as the dry wood burst into flames, setting the tables on fire. Choking black smoke rapidly filled the room. She coughed and put her sleeve up to her face as she ran back to the kitchen to look for some water. A filled bucket sat beside the door.

She wound the second dagger into the belt at her waist and lifted the bucket. Some of the water sloshed out as she struggled to carry its weight into the main room.

The monk ripped a tapestry from the wall and batted the flames with it. Nearing the tremendous heat alarmed her, but with her hands on either side of the bucket, she threw her arms forward and tossed the small amount of water onto the raging flames nearest her.

The blaze continued in spite of their efforts, mocking them. They only had a few minutes to leave through one of those doors or be engulfed in fire.

Acrid smoke burned her eyes and singed her nostrils. She pulled her cloak over her face, unable to breathe any other way.

A resounding decision formed clear in her mind as she gripped the hilt of the dagger at her waist. She would rather try everything and die fighting than admit defeat.

“Weel, Father, it would seem ’tis God’s will for us to go into battle today,” she said.

“Aye,” he replied.

The monk dropped the tattered, smoldering tapestry and raced to the back door. She followed, tightening her hold on the hilt of her weapon, ready for anything. He lifted the crossbar, kicked open the door, and they ran out, thick black smoke furling out with them.

As the black smoke dissipated in the freezing air, there he stood—her greatest enemy.

“Broc.” She spat out his name, the very sound vile on her tongue.

Long, dark-brown hair curled wildly around her father’s scarred face. He stood ten feet away with his arms crossed, an evil glare leveled at her. Susanna narrowed her eyes at her lifelong demon, hatred pulsing fast through her veins.

“You ungrateful chit. Drop that ridiculous weapon,” he said.

“Nay,” she purred with calm venom. “I’m not goin’ with you.”

All of a sudden, a painful grip seized her upper arms, and she dropped the dagger. Fetid breath crawled across her cheek and filled her nostrils. “’Tis true. You’ll be goin’ with me.”

Dougal.

Anger, fear, and a lifetime of resentment rose up from the pit of her stomach and exploded out in an animalistic sound that ripped out from her throat. Every muscle in her body snapped taut at once. She punched hard between Dougal’s legs, whirled around when he bent and loosened his hold, and pulled the dagger from her boot, ramming it into the side of his neck.

He looked up at her in wide-eyed shock, a gurgling noise coming from his throat.

She ran.

The open ten-stall stable was the only other building, and she sprinted into the shelter and slammed the door shut. She spun around, her heart thundering in her ears as she stared at a door that had no lock.

Shafts of light streaming between rotting roof slats and a glow from the back wall’s grimy window cast enough light to look around. She discovered a stack of freshly cut boards in the corner and dragged one over, lifted one end, and propped it against the door. Uncertain if the one would hold, she pulled another over and wedged it tightly down beside the first. She stared at the boards, hoping the creative brace held.

*

Robert’s stallion broke through the dense forest on Brodie’s neighboring lands, jumped over a broken stone wall, and descended into a swirling black smoke that billowed thickest from behind a weathered monastery. As he charged through the choking haze tainting the air, he passed five horses tied to a post in the side courtyard. He squinted when a flash of blinding sunlight glinted off an ornate bridle on the nearest animal.

Dougal.

A low shout and a clash of metal announced the location of an ongoing fight, and as Robert’s stallion leaned into a turn at the back corner of the structure, he launched from his mount. In midair he unsheathed his sword, a low ring marking his presence before his boots hit the snow at a run toward the fray.